My Life in the Classroom, Where Race Always Matters

When you walk into a classroom, what’s your demeanor? Are you approachable, even casual? Or do you favor authority and formality?

Ever since Katrina Gulliver, a professor at University of New South Wales, lamented a “culture of familiarity” in the lecture hall, I’ve been reading professors’ reflections on these questions. Reflections from professors like Will Miller, who pushed back against Gulliver: “I have been known to occasionally teach in clothes that I could mow the lawn in,” he wrote, “and apparently a student or two have at some point said I was cool. That’s not my goal, however.”

I’m a casual dresser, too, but that’s not what struck me about Miller’s essay. What stood out was this line: I may be a white male, but this has nothing to do with why I am comfortable in a classroom.

There’s a lot to digest here. But let me start with this: I am a white male, and that has everything to do with why I am comfortable in a classroom, why I am respected, and how I’m read by students and others. That is my story, and the story of my career within academe.

Berkeley: Summer 1998

I still remember the excitement I felt when I taught my first class solo. No discussion sections, no grading demands from other professors: This was my syllabus, my approach, my opportunity to develop relationships with students. The course covered the civil-rights movement, and I was thrilled by the opportunity to share my passion for the untold stories of the movement.

As a white, male graduate student, I worried: Would my knowledge and academic background be enough to make students respect me as an authority on civil-rights history? But back then, I figured that my extensive reading list and my preparation were enough. Beyond that initial burst of anxiety, I gave little thought to what my whiteness meant inside the classroom.

About halfway through the class, we prepared to watch Spike Lee’s 4 Little Girls, a powerful documentary that chronicles the trauma and terror of the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham, Ala. Wanting the students to sit with the film, to reflect, and to emotionally connect with it, I encouraged them to bypass the standard practice of detached, academic note-taking. “Sit back,” I said, “and enjoy the film.”

Looking back, I cannot believe I said these words. But I’m not entirely surprised: My privilege needed to be checked. In my mind, I was simply reminding them to watch, listen, learn, and feel. Yet that’s not what came out of my mouth. What I said seemed like an attempt to turn a film about terror into a moment of pleasure and enjoyment.

A few weeks later, two African-American students approached me separately. They each challenged me to think about what I had said, why it was significant, and how my whiteness mattered. They were right. I was blinded by privilege and the belief that “it’s all about the material,” not even questioning how I presented that material. My distance from the history shaped how I talked about the civil-rights movements and white-supremacist violence. When I reached into my pedagogical toolbox, steeped in whiteness and my middle-class Los Angeles upbringing, I grabbed hold of “enjoy the film” with little forethought about how such an insensitive phrase might trigger emotions and anger. It was the first of many lessons on how race always matters in the classroom.

Berkeley: Spring 2002

As I approached the completion of my Ph.D., I was afforded the opportunity to teach an upper-level undergraduate ethnic-studies class with over 200 students. It was daunting. Between wrangling eight teaching assistants (many of whom were my friends), and lecturing to all those undergrads, I was apprehensive—if not scared—for much of the semester.

Over the years, I have been asked over and over again: Did the students—either the legendarily political Berkeley crew or the less-progressive students who just were taking the course for a general-education requirement—ever challenge me, question why I was teaching the class, or simply resist my pedagogical approach? Never. Happened. Even though I lectured about genocide, enslavement, mass incarceration, and persistent white supremacy, students offered little resistance.

This all changed, though, when a fellow graduate student—an African-American man—delivered a couple of guest lectures about the prison-industrial complex. After two mind-blowing and brilliant talks, I was excited to continue the conversation with the class. My students? Not so much. They lamented the guest lecturer’s “attitude.” They described him as “angry,” as “biased” and “sarcastic,” and as “different from me.” Several students seemed more interested in litigating his pedagogical choices than discussing the injustices of the American judicial system.

We (I’m indebted to one of my TA’s for her work here) refused to hold this conversation in his absence, so we brought him back into the classroom. And we pushed the class to reflect on why I was seen as an objective, fair-minded, truth-telling, and lovable “teddy bear,” whereas he was angry, biased, and more interested in a political agenda than the truths of history. The conversations that resulted from these interventions were powerful, spotlighting that race, racism, and privilege didn’t just operate outside the classroom, in history and in culture. They played a role within our learning space as well.

The wages of whiteness were paid inside and outside the classroom. I was seen as an objective authority, I realized, in part because I was a white male.

Pullman, Wash.: 2004

Since joining the faculty at Washington State University, I have been known to swear in class. I’ve worn ripped-up jeans along with a Lakers jersey. I ask my students to call me David, though I do tell them that if they are interested in formality, “Prof” or “Dr.” are fine.

I’m less able to pass as a student these days—I’ve got a gray beard, a balding head, and an old person’s sartorial style—but I’ve embraced blending into student populations. For me, this isn’t simply about being cool or fitting in or feeling young. I consider it a pedagogical intervention: The idea is to challenge our collective understanding of what it means to be an intellectual, and to show that scholarly pursuits are not incompatible with the “everyday.” Sure, I could lecture on Bourdieu, but I could just as easily talk trash about another Lakers’ championship—remember, 2004 was a while ago—or talk shop about the latest Madden incarnation.

But my ability to do this—to maintain authority even while wearing a Zinedine Zidane or Terrell Owens jersey—is predicated on what George Lipsitz called “the possessive investment in whiteness.” In other words, institutional biases and individual prejudices reinforce one another. They certainly affect my place as a professor. My status as a white male is intertwined with the respect I receive. Women and scholars of color are not afforded this built-in respect, whatever their individual accomplishments, sartorial choices, degrees, or pedagogical styles. As a white male, I benefit from being seen as a professor, as an authority, before I actually say or do anything.

In my 12 years at Washington State, I have never had a student complain about my sartorial choices, my profanity, my propensity for “tangents,” or my professionalism. The same cannot be said about my colleagues, women and faculty of color, whose professionalism, authority, and preparedness is routinely challenged. My wardrobe of jerseys, hoodies, baseball hats, and sagging jeans is not subject to the evaluative scrutiny of future Mr. Blackwells. Contrast that with the women and people of color in the academy whose clothing selections are questioned and used to evaluate their expertise.

On the basketball court, it might be the shoes that make the player. In the classroom, though, it’s the privileges afforded along racial and gender lines that make the professor. Or it’s those privileges, at least, that color the ways students, faculty, and administrators measure a professor’s success.

Pullman, Wash.: May 2014

I have spoken, by now, in numerous classrooms, at conferences, and in many other venues; for the longest time, I felt uncomfortable with any sort of introduction that noted my academic background, publications, or accomplishments. I scoffed at pretense and formality; I was David.

I know now that that was a luxury. More than my degrees or my publications, my whiteness was authenticating me. I had thought that by refusing the accoutrements of academe, I was bucking the system. Instead, I was merely cashing in on the societal privileges afforded to me because of my identity.

So what have I learned? My education is ongoing: I still wince at the lack of critical awareness I showed, early on, in giving underdeveloped introductions to guest speakers in class or at conferences, centering my sense of appropriateness and formality. And I haven’t started to demand a level of classroom formality that doesn’t work for me. But I’m more sensitive to the experiences of others. I’m more aware of how my whiteness matters. Not many of us would be naïve enough to think that the classroom is a colorblind nirvana, but too many of us still act as if that’s the case.

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Well Dr. Leonard is certainly aware of his race, even if everyone else isn't thinking about 24/7. Frankly no prof should be able to "get away" with wearing ripped jeans and a Lakers' jersey. First of all - the jersey, if you are older than 12 you don't wear sports jerseys in public. Doesn't matter your race, that look says developmentally delayed and hero worshipping issues. The ripped jeans, please be hip on your own time. Could an on-white prof pulled of that look with their students, yeah, and thankfully looked just as silly as you did. Last word on apparel - a Terrell Owens jersey???? That shows attitude about authority issues and invites snarkiness.But about the bigger context here - its David who is hung up on is whiteness. I, thankfully, work at a college, with a mostly white student population with professionals of all races and, if anything, privilege is extended from students to profs based more on age and overall teaching ability. It has become way less cool to be old than to be anything else at a college. Old and dressed for the wrong generation (in other words, it's okay to know rap songs but men in their 50s shouldn't dress like rap stars) are the biggest sins.

ram 83

10 months ago

I don't get quite the same message out of this story that the author does. First off, I'd like to point out that I suspect most of the reason he gets such a strong feeling about racial significance is because he's actually talking about race and race-related things. Yes, I believe him when he says that a thoughtless slip of the tongue to "enjoy" a harsh, race-sensitive movie probably made students cringe. But I'd argue that (1) if a black teacher said the same thing, the students would still have cringed and also that (2) if he'd made the same comment about a race-insensitive movie about fluffy bunnies, no one would have. The comment was a slip-up, because of the context. Independent of race, though obviously some people will tend to cringe more than others because of their own background.

Secondly, he several times notes that his gender and race makes it naturally easier for him to fit in and be accepted by students. As a white woman who's taught computer science and engineering classes, I just want to point out that maybe it's less his race and more his own self-confidence that gets him accepted. I have NEVER had a problem gaining the attention and respect of those students I've taught or tutored, despite being a woman in a heavily male-dominated field. Why? Because they realize rather quickly that I know my stuff. And for 99% of students, that's enough. They don't really care what clothes I wear or the quirky way I can be cheerful and irreverent. They just care that I can teach them C++ programming or the mathematics of dynamics. Which is fine with me, since my gender and race don't have anything to do with such subjects.

I think this article is heavily biased because the prof is teaching race-sensitive material, and that as such, his experiences should not be applied as a general rule to all teachers.

J B

10 months ago

I'm old enough to be the parent of any of my students, and I try to keep that in mind. How would I feel as a 20 year if my dad or mom asked to call them by their first name? How would I feel if they tried to act cool in front of my friends? Also, I don't think this generation of students are obsessed with race the way Dr. Leonard is. For one thing, there are many more multiracial young people these days. Including my own kids and many of their friends. I don't even think of race in the classroom anymore, or try to be cool.

Paul Johnson

10 months ago

I enjoyed reading this piece and completely relate. I am an African-American female. I'm always analyzing how my identity (race, gender and age) plays a part in my presence in the classroom. For one, I am "young" and can easily blend in with my students. My age has allowed students to easily relate to me and question my credibility (the latter part typically when I am teaching non-traditional adults and surprisingly the apprehensiveness comes more from black females than any other race or gender). I also teach at multiple schools whose cultural make up are all completely different. The main school I teach at is predominantly white in a rural setting. My school just begin celebrating MLK day three years ago (it's 2014!). I am one of 3 full time faculty members. Overall my experience has been an enjoyable one. However, at times I found myself struggling to not make my identity matter and I got to the point where I realized there was nothing I could do about it. I've had a total of 3 complaints that I teach "too much black stuff" (I teach literature and composition). Luckily my deans are very supportive . I have also had two complaints that my course focuses on women issues and African American problems (i.e. Because I am a black female). The most interesting part is many other students will report in their evaluations how diverse the course was. I enjoy receiving feedback and use it to improve my pedagogical approaches. Since I've started teaching my evaluations have confirmed my effectiveness in the classroom as well as confirm that my identity matters. I always say my experience a young black instructor is quite different from many. On the contrast in a predominantly black setting I'm faced with a few challenges: 1. Young black males expressing inappropriate comments. I've even had to report a female student for hitting on me. 2. black females either absolutely love me at first sight or give off attitude. This is before the course even begins (Luckily the latter is less frequent). And as mentioned previously, older black non-traditional students who could be my mother or grandmother questioning my authenticity and it feeling comfortable addressing me formally.

I dress formally almost everyday to work. Some days I dress casual, but it is always business appropriate. I notice that my students (all races) pay close attention to what I am wearing or what style my hair is. I intentionally keep it simple. I do not wear much make up or switch up my hair styles. When observing my white female co-workers, I notice how easy it is for them to wear lipstick and the same way it's more acceptable for a white professor to wear ripped up jeans and a jersey over a black professor.

Even as a student I had an adjunct professor who was black and wore a jersey to school. I remember specifically "judging" him and not taking him seriously and/or categorizing him. While in grad school, I had a white professor who wore the same ripped up jeans and dingy t-shirt every week and I admired his "go against the norm" approach. I also remember as a student enjoying when a professor cursed (they were mostly white males). I felt as if it made them more authentic and I was sure I was going to remain as authentic as possible once teaching. As a professor now, I would never curse in class because my students would have a heart attack.

More season instructors inform me my age won't play a factor for much longer (clearly I am going to get older) but I will always remain a black female. Now I address the situation head on. I do not hide my identity. My picture is up so my students can see I am black. I have even added an "About the Instructor" document to my course site. This provides the students information about my education background in experience as a scholar. I am forced to emphasize to my literature students the topics and stories discussed do not reflect my personal opinions or beliefs and I am extra conscious about providing a diverse experience. Navigating through my identity is a daily challenge--a challenge that I take on with pride.

Kyesha Jennings

10 months ago

Well, Davey, you get the "I'm Really Enlightened and a Cool Connected Model of Modern English Department Rectitude" award. It would be impossible to enumerate your impressive qualities, so I'll just leave it at this. Help, please take me off this mailing list! Is there no exit from this room? Please, check my privilege to read this pious, self-serving drivel!

Dane Dowling

10 months ago

Never thought I'd see the day when a white person would be accused of race baiting. I certainly hope this professor's detractors are not educators. If so, I pray for their students.

Rosalind Dawson

10 months ago

Excellent piece--thanks for writing it. The hostility in the comment thread certainly indicates the continuing denial of white privilege in the academy!

Karen Kelsky

10 months ago

Yes,

Dr. Leonard, what prevents you from wearing a nice shirt and slacks to lecture ?

Have you failed to leave your College years behind.

Why do you use the word "White" are you a complete albino - is your skin really white ?

Alas, you think too much of yourself - just be a professional and leave the

racial categorising behind and dress nice and you will do fine.

George Watson

10 months ago

I'm not entirely persuaded that the author's comfort level in the classroom derives from white privilege. I am "brown", but feel quite relaxed when it comes to classroom dress (although I admit, I would never wear my Ewing jersey to class. The idea seems mildly insane.) I would say the most relevant factors in our comfort level are acculturation and age. We grew up in an era where the youth culture acquired a kind of universal cache. To say "cool" in this era is to say and to stay "cool" for the rest of your life. In a way, the "adult"--conceived in strict otherness to children-- is a rapidly dying or even extinct species in our culture.